The Descent
ABC Episode 7: After Annapurna, before everything else
I woke before dawn to the sound of what I thought was thunder.
It was still dark. The outside of my sleeping bag was damp - condensation or something else, I couldn’t tell. I lay there for a while, listening. Later, Ratna told us it wasn’t thunder. It was an avalanche. He said in a few years, this camp will be buried. They’ll build a new one somewhere else. It’s always been that way here.
I got up at five and stepped outside. The sky was a wall of white. Snow falling, fog everywhere, visibility maybe ten feet. I stood there for a minute, then went back in.
At breakfast, everyone looked disappointed but was trying not to show it. We joked about the garlic soup and how it had turned us all into gas machines the night before.
Then someone noticed light coming through the window.
We rushed outside. The clouds had cracked open, and there it was - Annapurna, in full view. Snow peaks lit by early sun, closer and more massive than I’d imagined. For a few minutes, no one said anything. We just stood there, cameras out, knowing it wouldn’t last.
Fifteen minutes. That’s all we got. Then the clouds closed again, and Ratna called us over. It was time to go.
Ratna asked us to put on crampons for the descent. The snow had been heavy overnight, and the trail would be dangerous without traction.
But we didn’t have any. No one had given us crampons.
Ratna disappeared for a few minutes. When he came back, he was carrying gear - his own crampons, and Raj’s, and the two porters’. Four pairs total. There were nine of us.
So we split them - one crampon per person, one foot each. Eight of us got one. Ingmar volunteered to go without.
We strapped in and started down.
Binod led. He was always a machine on the trail, but today he was more locked in than I’d ever seen him - focused, relentless, no breaks, no check-ins. He moved fast down the icy rocks, and we scrambled to keep up. After a while, we stopped trying to match his pace. Let him fly. We’d find our own way down.
The snow reflected so much light everything blurred white. My legs moved on autopilot. I stopped thinking about anything except the next step.
We made it to MBC, then kept pushing toward Deurali. Somewhere along the way, we passed Himalaya Café - a tiny coffee stand we’d noticed on the way up. It had an actual espresso machine. A barista who could pour latte art. At this altitude, it felt absurd. We insisted on stopping.
Ratna wasn’t thrilled. We were already behind schedule. But we needed this.
The coffee was perfect. We stood there for a few minutes, pretending we were normal people in a normal place. Then we kept moving.
And then the rain came.
It started as drizzle. Within minutes, it was a downpour - heavy sheets of rain that soaked through everything. We stopped to pull on rain gear, but it barely helped. The trail turned into rivers of mud and slick rock.
No one was talking anymore. No jokes, no complaining, no music. All we could do was keep moving and try not to fall.
I’d felt a cold coming on since the morning, and now it was getting worse. My throat burned. My nose wouldn’t stop running. I was soaked from rain and sweat at the same time.
We reached Dovan for lunch, drenched and shivering. They’d pre-ordered egg noodle soup for everyone. We sat in the dining hall with the porters, too wet to go outside, spooning hot broth and saying nothing.
Joya lent me her rain pants so I could change into something dry. Eunice gave Victor her back-up raincoat. Small kindnesses passed around without discussion.
After lunch, Ratna told us what was next: a 45-minute climb, all stairs. Followed by 1.5 hrs of descent.
I knew I shouldn’t take off my long-sleeve layer, but I was sweating through my cold and did it anyway. My body was fighting itself.
The stairs were brutal. I could see Binod at the top, disappearing over the ridge. The rest of us were scattered across the hillside, each person in their own world, rain still coming down, legs burning. One step, then another. It didn’t matter who reached the top first. Just that we all made it.
Somewhere on the descent, Joya tore a muscle in her inner thigh. Raj had her arm over his shoulder, bearing most of her weight. Rey, still sick, pushed through without complaint. I felt like I was floating - like my legs were dragging my body forward and my mind had checked out. My cold had fully set in. I couldn’t tell if I was shivering from the rain or from fever.
When we finally reached Lower Sinuwa, it was almost dark. 11 hours. 22 kilometers. 45,000 steps.
Even the guides collapsed when they arrived. Ratna said he’d never done this trail in weather this bad.
We dropped into plastic chairs. The tea house we’d thought was basic two days ago now looked like heaven. A few of us sprinted for the showers, trying to beat the auntie group to the hot water. When it was my turn, I stayed longer than I should have. The heat felt like medicine.
That night, I slept without waking once. Not even to pee. That never happens.
The last day was gentler.
We woke at six, packed slowly, ate breakfast like a routine we’d been doing for years. Everyone knew who ordered the French toast, who got the porridge, who was sharing the Shin Ramen. No one had to ask.
The final hike passed without drama. It rained a little on the way down, but nothing like yesterday.
Then came the last challenge: a suspension bridge stretched across the valley, long enough that I couldn't see the other side. Beyond it - a road, vehicles, the world we'd left behind a week ago. The bridge swayed with every step. Porters jogged past, making it bounce harder. I gripped the cables and kept my eyes forward. Ten minutes later, I was across.
At the road, civilization hit us all at once - honking, vendors, exhaust, noise. We climbed onto a bus. The porters requested music and started singing along, Nepali songs with intros that sounded like the soundtrack to an eagle soaring over mountains. Binod danced in his seat. We clapped along as the bus bounced down the mountain.
The hotel in Pokhara had clean sheets. A hot shower with pressure. Two rolls of toilet paper. A real toilet.
I stood in the bathroom for a while, just looking at it.
That night, we had dinner with the guides at a restaurant Ratna chose. It had neon lights and a stage where dancers performed to blasting music. We had to shout to hear each other. It felt overwhelming.
But we stayed. And when the moment came, we handed over our tips - wrapped in trail maps, decorated by Eunice. She’d written each of their names by hand.
Ratna smiled. Raj smiled. Binod smiled. Then they said goodbye and walked out.
Suddenly it was just us.
It felt like our parents had just dropped us off at school. For a week, we’d been taken care of. Now we were on our own again.
The boys were still hungry, so they went to KFC. I wasn’t feeling well, so I headed back to the hotel. Lyn, Joya, and Ingmar walked me there.
And just like that, the trek was over.
I’ve been trying to figure out what to say about it. What it meant. What we learned.
The truth is, we all came out different.
Some of us learned to sprint downhill. Some of us learned to push through while sick. Some of us learned to squat-poop without losing our minds. Some of us learned to sleep in rooms with spiders. And Joya confirmed that, yep, she still hates hiking.
But all of us crossed the finish line together.
Annapurna is still there. We saw it for fifteen minutes, and then it disappeared behind clouds. But I don’t think it was ever really the point.
The point was the people beside me. The silence we shared when words ran out. The coffee brewed at 4,130 meters. The pineapple cake saved for the summit. The kindness that didn’t need to be announced.
I came to Nepal hoping the mountains would give me something. They gave me fifteen minutes. The people beside me gave me everything else.
Thank you for following along. This was the final episode of the ABC series.